


Traumerei

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, Rinch but no sex, Singing, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold hums; John sleeps finally</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traumerei

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a magnificent piece of music by Schumann - please give it a listen on youtube - there's a million renditions and many beautiful piano versions - I am learning this and it gave me this idea for a fic in the hope that it will break my self-imposed hiatus (well, my inspiration fairies are on strike)...

It all started after the events on the rooftop, when Harold disarmed the bomb strapped to John’s chest. They were already used to being in each other's ear throughout the day, as they had been almost since day one. But that night, as Harold worked in the small hours of the morning, as he was wont to do because sleep, for him, was elusive at best, he heard whimpering in his ear and realized that John had forgotten to turn off the comm link when he went to bed after a few good measures of the whiskey Harold had brought to the loft once, and left there. As he tossed and turned, and as the dark liquid started a slow burn in the pit of his heaving stomach, John started to turn off his ear-bud but realized that the clicking of Harold’s keys made him feel less forlorn and alone. Almost dying had a way of putting things in perspective. Oh, his own death did not matter much to him. He had no doubt that they would never come out of this alive, and that in the end each of them was alone in the world, but that small measure of comfort helped somewhat assuage the anxiety he still felt at very nearly causing Harold’s death on that rooftop.

But as he fell asleep, the darkness reasserted its power over him, and the nightmares that had plagued him since the days of his black ops work came back with a vengeance.

Harold could hear every moan, cry and whimper but was helpless to do anything. As he was at the point of putting on his jacket and hailing a cab to go down to John’s place, an idea came upon him. As a child, he had suffered from anxiety and nightmares and he remembered going down to his father’s workshop in the basement, very, very late at night, and sitting on the last rung of the stairway, being very careful not to make any noise. His father was a music lover and he always was humming something or other under his breath. It was the only thing that would put little Harold to sleep as he wrapped himself in the blankie he’d brought down with him, holding tight to his old bedraggled stuffed bear. He’d let his head lean against the wall and would finally fall asleep gentled by his father’s humming. As he woke up in the morning, he never remembered being cradled in his father's strong arms all the way back to his own bed, wondering if he had been dreaming all along.

And so, slowly and very self-consciously, Harold started humming Schumann’s Traumerei under his breath. He knew he did not have a great voice, but he was humming so low that he could barely hear himself. Still, he could feel the heat on his cheeks, even though he knew he was absolutely alone in the library, aside from Bear who came up slowly and sat by his side, his big fluffy head on Harold’s thigh, sighing mightily. After a few minutes, Harold stopped to listen to John, and he was amazed that the whimpering had ceased, as had the tossing and turning, and John’s breathing was becoming deeper. He kept it on for a few more minutes and tapered off slowly when he could hear nothing more than soft snoring coming from the other end.

And now, two years later, Harold had gotten used to humming under his breath when he worked late in the subway station, their new-found lair. They never spoke about it, but as he came in to the station in the morning, armed with green tea, coffee and something for breakfast, John was sometimes absentmindedly humming what Harold had been humming the night before: sometimes a stretch of an aria, a few bars of an old blues song, snatches from an operetta or a Broadway musical, an old Ivor Novello song from the 1920s, and even sometimes an old country and western song from the fifties with its soulful longing and big sentiments. Neither of them mentioned it – Harold did not want to make John uncomfortable, and John looked like he never noticed he was doing it.

But in the evening, when John settled for the night, he made it a point to rustle the sheets loudly so Harold would know he was going to sleep, and as he sank down, alone, in his enormous bed, he’d close his eyes and wait for Harold’s voice to start its healing work. Harold never let on that he knew what was going on, and when he was sure John was finally in bed, he’d resume his typing, humming softly the song of the day. And on those nights, John fell asleep with a smile on his lips, his mind at ease, safely held in the magic of Harold’s voice.


End file.
